


mulberry

by theholychesse



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: A Seduction through emotions???, Angst, Loki Has Issues, M/M, the grandmaster (blessed sugar daddy that he is) understands and cares, wholesome content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 09:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14849882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theholychesse/pseuds/theholychesse
Summary: They pronounced him to be, and, he quotes, "A speedy bastard," with the obvious implication that he would not be a long-lived bastard, and as such, threw a laughable amount of armour at him. A thin-layered suit of leather, which would hardly stop a thrust of a dagger, yet alone a swing from a h-hammer, a single pauldron from which a semi-translucent cyan sleeve hung, and a collection of daggers. They'd given him a slim little sword in the style of a world beyond Loki's study, but he had left it behind. No, for this trick, he would have no need of such weapons."You're a fucking idiot." Said the purple humanoid. "You're, what, going to take Valeris the Bluedread on with a few sharp bits of metal?""Well, and this wonderful sleeve, too." Loki countered, an easy smile on his face, despite the ever-so-present roiling of apprehension in the pit of his stomach.





	mulberry

**Author's Note:**

> hey so everyone's doing frostmaster??? and i guess so am i
> 
> for once. a wholesome fic from me. my god.

They pronounced him to be, and, he quotes, "A speedy bastard," with the obvious implication that he would not be a _long-lived_  bastard, and as such, threw a laughable amount of armour at him. A thin-layered suit of leather, which would hardly stop a thrust of a dagger, yet alone a swing from a h-hammer, a single pauldron from which a semi-translucent cyan sleeve hung, and a collection of daggers. They'd given him a slim little sword in the style of a world beyond Loki's study, but he had left it behind. No, for this _trick_ , he would have no need of such weapons. 

"You're a fucking idiot." Said the purple humanoid. "You're, what, going to take Valeris the Bluedread on with a few sharp bits of metal?"  
  
"Well, and this wonderful sleeve, too." Loki countered, an easy smile on his face, despite the ever-so-present roiling of apprehension in the pit of his stomach.   
  
The mechanism which would open the door began to hum, a few rooms over. As soon as the slightest slit in the door was made, Loki could  _feel_ the roars of the crowd.   
  
"Will you wish me luck?" Loki asks, eyes locked forward.   
  
The sorry little purple thing slathered the side of his face in thick silver paint, gave a grunt, and leaned down to whisper in his ear, "I hope you die slowly, Assgardman."   
  
Even at such a moment, the universe couldn't give him a moment of reprieve from the sheer comedy of existence.   
  
Valeris the Bluedread turned out to be a 20 foot tall, black and blue creature with six limbs, four mouths, one eye, and a propensity for cutting himself in the midst of a battle. "This is for your death, worm." The beast growled, body covered in little slits from previous battles, some even bleeding still.   
  
Loki does _understand_ the fact that being hurled to a dusty hellhole a universe away from Asgard tends to mean no one knows who he is. But, truly, must  _everyone_ go out of their way to insult him?   
  
Loki decides to not deign to give the creature an answer, merely flicks a dagger into the freshly made slit in the beast's flesh, and watches the creature give nary a flinch. Instead, the beast raised its head and give a four-mouthed toothy grin. Of course, its teeth are red with blood. Of course.   
  
Ducking a swing of the mace in its upper left arm, Loki scampered away by a few paces, watching the creature growl and charge forward, swing, before ducking and scampering away again. But by now, the beast had learned the gist of their dance, and struck out with a right limb. Loki slipped by the sword aimed for his gut, pressed himself against the beast's arm, and stabbed two daggers into its equivalent of a bicep, dragging through flesh and muscle fibers until the beast's arm was coated with its own blue blood. The beast  _howled_ with pain, and raised its arm to throw Loki off, but Loki merely held on, lips aching with his grin.  
  
Using the beast's own thick hide and flesh, Loki scuttled onto its back, and despite the blows and hands that attempted to throw him off, was able to stay put with sheer effort and will, exhilaration throbbing in his veins. Throwing himself onto the back of its neck, Loki felt a hand clamp around his right leg and  _pull,_ but despite the screeching pain, Loki was able to plant a golden shimmering hand onto the back of the beast's head, and with a thought, with a blast of power, felt the skull give and the beast's face explode out into a literal torrent of blood and gore.   
  
Valeris the Bluedread slumped dead a mere 2 minutes into their battle, with Loki standing up straight away, brushing dirt and blood off his right leg, healing the torn muscle and skin with a hidden flash of power, and spreading his arms with the joy of his victory making his face sharp and his heart shriek into his ears.   
  
The stadium was utterly and completely silent, for a moment, for two. Until in unison they all _screamed_ , some with fury, with indignation, and some with disbelief or amazement.   
  
Loki twirled around, a million and then some faces pressing in and  _looking_ at him, all knowing and screaming and hating and loving his name, and in that moment, he thought,  _I could get used to this._  
  
But, of course, the whole point of this was to avoid such a fate. And, of course, such a trick could only work once. Loki did not doubt for a moment that if he went into battle a second time, he would be made a bloody wreck in no time at all. After all, he is truly all tricks and no substance, isn't he?   
  
With the crowd screaming his name, with the paint on his face still as wet and sticky as when it had been first slathered on, Loki was brought by a two-man guard from the underbelly of this place, to places more rich and lavish and where the scent of death did not cling to the walls like a whore to gold. Up in a booth overlooking the entire colosseum, was a crowd of tittering alien creatures, dressed in silks and alien threads and all sipping richly coloured fizzy drinks. And at the head of them all, a man of a surprisingly Asgardian look wearing garish yellow fabric and draped in various shades of blue and red, stood, spread his arms, harrumphed, and said, "Well, that was, well,  _well_. Surprisingly so, actually. Loki—Was it? Congratulations, I think you're the quickest person to take down a Harvianan on record. And the record isn't, well, something  _unsizable._ "  
  
With a half smile spread on his face, the man came just a bit closer, arms dropping down a small flap of his sleeves. Loki inclined his head, smiled, and said, "Well, I didn't wish to undersell myself, after all. What's the point of not letting the universe know of me when I'm having my grand premiere?"  
  
"Right. Right. Yeah." The man's nary a meter away, staring into Loki's eyes. The man is simply that, a man, except—He is  _not._ There is power coiled around him, in him, rich and dark and  _old,_ above all things, _old_. It reaches out, like a curious animal, nosing at the edge of Loki's skin. In response, Loki lets a bit of his own power slip through his skin, his power, green and gold and a cold blue, young and fresh but somehow something nearly as cosmic as a creature as old as the cosmos itself.   
  
"I'm, uh, The Grandmaster, in case you haven't heard." The man says, staring down at their magic, yellow and red linking up with green and gold. One's rich and dark and thick, and the other is thinner, flightier, flirtier. There's something like growing admiration in his voice.   
  
"Your name isn't the only thing I've heard about you, Grandmaster." There's something to his voice—A just there  _purr_ , that makes the man's eyes dart back to his own.   
  
Loki brushed a spot of blood from his sleeve, tongue reaching out to clean a bit of silver paint from his lip, and said, "I've also heard you've got a fondness for rare, pretty things. And, if I say so myself—I think I'm just that, pretty and rare." A thumb, rough and painted turquoise, pressed into the corner of his lip, where his tongue had darted out. The thumb pulled down on his bottom lip, ever so, and Loki noted that the man was ever so taller than him. "And more than that, I would wager." Loki felt the weight of his daggers in his suit lining, and for a moment, a quick moment, he wondered how easy a cosmic creature was to kill. It wouldn't be the first time, after all.   
  
"I'd say so, yeah." The Grandmaster said, voice a timbre lower, hushed and staring at Loki's tongue circling the intruding digit, slowly, carefully.   
  
Powerful men only had a few given ways they could be charmed, after all. And all Loki was, in the end, was charms and tricks.  
  
The Grandmaster's thumb could feel the line of his lips curling with the force of his grin. 

* * *

Even for the fondness the man held for him, Loki was still, nonetheless, an outsider, an interloper in this alien court a world away from everything Loki knew and ~~loved~~ hated. Even if the Grandmaster was the epitome of excited hospitality, his court of fluttering pretty and rare things weren't. Loki came to know the lay of the land quickly. The Grandmaster only had so much favour to give, and the more given to someone, the less someone else was given. Simple stuff, in the end. Make yourself look as eatable as physically possible, slide in with witty jokes or grand tales or with looks alone, and hope to earn his favour, like a bunch of flowers hoping the sun would turn to look upon them and shine and make their days all the brighter and easier.   
  
Loki had never been a flower, nor nearly as passive.   
  
A handmaiden of sorts, Thycacine, a girl with large fangs and claws and a coward's heart, was assigned to him, and it was she that dragged his hair back, wrapping and curling the ends into a more unkempt version of his usual style, and painted and powdered him, as he slid into an outfit specifically chosen to make the eye turn and stay. Once they were done, and Loki turned around and made his skin glow and flush with magic, extended the life of the small dabbings of perfume on his body to last over a day, and other such small, careful touches, it was she that stopped to stare, slit pupils blown.  
  
It was comforting to know, despite the alien terrors of this realm, some things stayed the same regardless of such paltry things as time and space.   
  
It was she who added the final touch. Kiss-swollen lips were so much more attractive than simple painted ones.   
  
This was a party of sorts, apparently, occurring a city away in a docked pleasure ship. Loki could feel the throb of music before he'd even stepped in, and was instantly accosted by half a dozen servants with a dozen various drinks, and chose a simple glass with something chartreuse and fizzy and sweet smelling. The drink tasted like raspberries and mint and something like ozone, and Loki instantly decided that escaping Sakaar without irreparably damaging his liver was an impossibility.   
  
All of the bodies here were beautiful, and painted, and dressed well. Loki here was not an unusual specimen, but Loki wasn't dull enough to only count on the fluttering of his eyes to get ahead. Manoeuvring through the crowds, and grabbing another drink, now a deep blue and smelling faintly of petrichor, Loki found the Grandmaster engaging in earnest discussion with a green-haired, green-skinned woman while another of her kind was writhing on the Grandmaster's lap, looking rather put out by being overshadowed by mere  _talk_.   
  
Both girls cast him a venomous glance, once the Grandmaster wasn't looking, and Loki shot them a grin all toothy and fierce at them in turn.   
  
Once the Grandmaster picked him out, the man's eyes alit. Loki could see it from here, with dull lights and writhing bodies between them. "Loki! Ah, nice, nice of you, to, uh, make it here! I was really hoping you would—But of course these kinda nights aren't for everyone." Loki took this as his invitation to come closer, and found a seat next to the man, on a sofa that felt squishy and somewhat  _alive,_ because of course. Of course.   
  
The two green girls looked at him with so much  _utter_ hatred that Loki had to struggle to not laugh at their expense. Right in front of them, right in front of the Grandmaster, Loki siddled closer, touching knees with the man, a bare inch or two between Loki's arm and the Grandmaster's chest. "Well, however could I refuse such an invitation? And such a wonderful party?" He asks, eyes scanning over the room. "Simply would be uncouth of me."   
  
"Right. Right." The man's voice was distant. Loki was worried, for a moment, before he caught him looking Loki up and down. The silks and cottons and polyester might feel like rubbing himself against a person-sized wall of stubble, but the tightness did  _wonders_ for his form.   
  
"Grandmaster." Loki chastised. "Eyes up front, if you wouldn't mind."   
  
"I would, uh, actually." The man outstretched a hand, and laid it, in faux innocence, at the very top of Loki's thigh. But did absolutely no more, as if content to merely press up against Loki's neglible body heat, and nothing else.   
  
"I've killed men for less, you know." Loki's voice was teasing, rather than threatening, and surprisingly, the Grandmaster let out a small chuckle at that.   
  
"Oh I can imagine it, absolutely. You're such an odd little thing, aren't you? Topaz—Do you know her? I don't know if you do, but she's lovely, she is, if a bit blunt, you know. But she thought it'll be best for you to stay as a fighter. Haven't had cunning things like you around for a while, now." Loki's blood goes ever so cold at the thought that, despite his efforts, despite his tricks, he could have had the distinct possibility of returning back to that hellscape. But instead, Loki continues to prettily smile.   
  
"What did you think of that, Grandmaster?" Loki asks.   
  
"Well, obviously—" The man licks his lips. His upper lip, to not smudge the blue paint on his bottom. "I vetoed that with a solid _no_. You're right, you know? I  _do_ like rare and pretty things. What's the point of, uh, sending something like you out to fight—When you're just as wonderful here, now?" They're closer together now, as if attracted by a weak form of magnetism. Loki is pretty sure the girls have just stormed off in a rage at some point.  
  
"I could have stayed, you know." Loki risks it.   
  
The Grandmaster raises a silver brow. "Oh?"  
  
"I could have continued fighting." Loki mulls over the words, like he does with his lip. The Grandmaster's eyes follow the pull and release of his lip from his teeth. "Continued winning, too. I'm a hard man to kill, Grandmaster. Perhaps somewhere down the line, I would have been bested, by one creature or another—But all my fights, all my battles, they would have been  _beautiful_ , wouldn't they?" They're eye to eye, flesh to flesh, almost breath to breath, now.   
  
Instead of answering, the Grandmaster makes one small shaky exhale.   
  
"All plain brutes, aren't they? Oh, they're _fun_ , terrible fun, I imagine. But there's only so long you can look at thunderous, muscled beasts beating each other to death with clubs or swords. I would have made your arena, your bloodsport, into  _art_. I have many tricks up my sleeve, Grandmaster. And imagine, fight after fight, them all coming to light, besting a foe with a summoned blade, or shapeshifting, or magical song, all done with style, with _flair_ , champion after champion falling in my wake. All little parlor tricks, yes—But isn't the beauty of it all that it is a _trick_?"  
  
Loki finds himself blaming the drink. And those eyes, older than Loki's, than Odin's, than Bor's, than the lakes and stones of Asgard herself, staring at him, hanging onto his each word like a dying man to water. Loki finds himself blaming the hand, the lights, the slight, lingering ache in his right leg, and everything else but himself. But that is not wholly unusual.   
  
"But my tricks would only last so long. There would be a time when someone quicker or stronger than me would come along, and strike a lucky blow, or would know all my tricks, know their ins and outs, their weaknesses—And there, in the dirt and sand, Loki Laufeyson, rightful King of Asgard, would die, drowned in his own blood." Loki's hand, covered in spicy balms and bangles, goes and ghosts over the bare skin of the Grandmaster's neck. "I wouldn't expect you to mourn me, Grandmaster. You're far too old, too experienced, to mourn the loss of yet another pretty and rare creature. But you would mourn something, wouldn't you, Grandmaster? You'd mourn the  _idea_ of me, wouldn't you?"   
  
Wouldn't you like to  _possess_ the idea of me, Grandmaster? Loki wants to say it. So utterly and completely. But he simply can't.  

Perhaps it truly is the drink _s_ , plural. Perhaps its the heady feeling of their magic coiling, like lovestruck serpents, rubbing against each other, knowing each other, sinking threads and skeins into each other, investigating each other's gaps and secrets. Perhaps it's everything and nothing at all. The moment stretches, long and tense between them, where all the both of them do is breath and look, and  _see._

"You're an intense one, aren't you?" The Grandmaster whispers, voice shaky, pupils blown.   
  
"I have never been known to half-ass things, Grandmaster." Loki's left leg has all but hitched onto the man's lap, and the man seems utterly appreciative of the fact.   
  
"I wouldn't—Uh—Let someone like you stay and fight. It would be nice, I gotta be honest—Seeing pretty things be destroyed is rather nice. But I think, uh—I'd much rather see you happy and, well,  _alive,_ Loki. _"_ The man speaks in such an odd, clumsy way, for a cosmic creature of mischief and games. 

"What you do, Lokester—" Loki's nose wrinkles, and the Grandmaster pats his shoulder, in apology. " _Loki,_ is—Is incredible. I haven't, uh, seen a lot, but—But I can—Y'know." A moment where the Grandmaster visibly thinks, and reaches out with his free hand, to pat at a swirl of Loki's power, power unseen but _felt,_ and Loki feels as if something deep in him is squeezed in response to the Grandmaster's touch. "I  _feel_ it. You're not all tricks and, uh, mirrors. There's serious substance to you." The Grandmaster's hand, the one at his thigh, squeezes—Not from lechery, or anything like it. But something like with the intent to  _comfort._    
  
There are few times in Loki's long life when he has been shocked to silence.   
  
"And I'd, uh, like to—Get to know it. You. You, uh, I think—Are someone that someone like me could mourn, you know?" The Grandmaster's smile is, it's, it's  _shy_. It's shy, and awkward, pulled up in little creases at the edges, and part of his head has sunk into the safety of his neck, like he's  _afraid_ of Loki, of what he might say, might think.   
  
Chaos might be as old as the universe itself. But Loki is but chaos' servant. Ultimately, in the end, he can never hope to match an elder of the universe, chaos god or not. And yet. And yet.   
  
And yet, there is a man that Loki does not know, that tells him he will be mourned. And he is  _scared._  
  
Loki swings his other leg onto the Grandmaster's lap, and sits, either leg straddling the man. His hands rise up, to cup at that tawny, painted skin—And Loki leans forward and kisses a man a universe older than him, wiser than him, more powerful than him—But is just that, a man, in the end.   
  
The Grandmaster makes a soft surprised noise, and his hands reach up to pull at Loki's robes, attempting to find purchase, until they settle at the small of his back and at the back of his neck. And when they pull away, both of their breaths are ragged, the party lives on, throbbing and writhing without the both of them, and the paint at the Grandmaster's lip is smudged.   
  
"Soft emotions are your kink. Good uh, to know." The Grandmaster has the  _gall_ to say, grinning, something like achievement on his face. Loki rolls his eyes, and then rolls his hips  _down,_ and the Grandmaster makes the softest little sigh, and then blusters and excuses himself, because truly, he's got a _zucchini_ in his pants, nothing more, nope, nope, nada.   
  
Loki kisses him once again, if only to shut him up. Oh, how cruel the universe is, for  _Loki_ to be the one faced with the arduous task of silencing a chattering twit.   
  
The Grandmaster's hands find a small slit in the fabric, and slide in, to roam over Loki's bare skin. Loki  _shivers,_ like a virgin, like a maiden, at the touch, and Loki distinctly, and suddenly, remembers having forgone sex for a good six years, for one reason or another. Oh  _dear._

But Loki's far to drunk on something, something not quite drink, not quite magic, to care overmuch, at the moment. 


End file.
